


Breakfast at Strawberry Fields

by redwinehouse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Banter, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, References to the Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Thank you for being so patient. You know how I get when presented with too many options.”“Annoying?”“Yes.”Aziraphale felt it again: a blanket of warmth. Crowley was staring at him, glasses balanced on the tip of his nose and one eyebrow unbelievably arched.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Breakfast at Strawberry Fields

The two certainties in life are death and taxes. Grief would have been a guarantee if Benjamin Franklin, while writing his letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, hadn’t been interrupted by one of his mistresses. The addition was forgotten and the idiom stuck. Even so, some people make such an impact on our hearts and minds that the world stops turning. 

It is said that God does not play dice with the universe, but rather an ineffable game of his own devising. On this day it seems that even God doesn’t have it in the cards.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat, eyes peeled to the crackling picture on the backroom TV.

 _John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side_ _of New York City—the most famous, perhaps, of all of the Beatles—shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival._

“Where do you think he’ll go?” Aziraphale said.

“If history serves _..._ ” Crowley looked sad. “I’m going to have to phone Paul and George. What was that other one?” 

“You know the Beatles?” 

“I’m a demon, of course I know the Beatles. Why’d you think we all got that haircut?” 

“ _You_ made them get that haircut?” Aziraphale gaped.

“How was I supposed to know people would actually like it?” 

They were silent, the word ‘misery’ hanging between them.

“It’s all part of The Plan,” Aziraphale offered in a way that even he didn’t sound convinced.

“God’s plan was to kill John Lennon?” Crowley replied in a way of a person who was _entirely_ convinced.

“It’s not up to you or I to judge. It will all make sense in the end.” 

“What is it with the killing? _John Lennon?_ ” Crowley’s voice went up an octave. “Every time we have to explain away God’s Ineffable Plan, it’s always killing.”

“We shouldn’t question _—_ ”

“Bugger your Plan! This is John Lennon!”

“He _did_ just make people happy.” 

“Well, there you go.”

Aziraphale got that self-righteous look Crowley hated. “Humans have free will. If there was no evil, they couldn’t choose to be good. You can’t really be a good person unless you have an option to do bad.”

“So you tempt them with all the fun bits and then punish them for it?”

“ _You_ do that.” There was no wise retort or counterpoint. Crowley sunk into the couch. “Crowley?”

“S’my fault.”

“What?”

Crowley took his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. “He died because of me.”

“You killed him?” 

“No!” Crowley glared at him, affronted by the thought. “You know that rumor about Shakespear not really putting pen to paper? Or quill to parchment, so to speak?” 

Aziraphale pouted. “Such a terrible thing, isn’t it? He worked so hard.”

“That was me.”

“Crowley!” 

“Oh, come on!” Crowley dropped his head back in exasperation. “He made us stand there for four hours validating those boring, depressing plays!”

“I don’t see what this has to do with John Lennon. It only shows how awful you are.”

“Once I got the word out that old William was nothing more than a great pretender, the humans did the rest. Everyone and everything became a sham. Then they made a name for it: ‘conspiracy theory.’”

Aziraphale wrestled down his urge to reprimand. 

_You go too fast for me._

Aziraphale had meant to say that he wanted to catch up.

The angel sighed. “It still wasn’t your fault, you know. What people do with your temptations is not up to you.”

“Free will?” Crowley nudged.

“That’s right.”

Crowley draped his arm across the couch and gave Aziraphale a half-smile. Warmth fell over him, like the kind of sleepy haze one gets when you’ve had too much wine. Aziraphale shifted, nearly drunk by the blanket of love crashing over him. 

“Fancy breakfast?”

The thought of the new pastry shop was too tempting. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Come on, then.”

The Bently was parked in front of the bookshop. Crowley waved a hand and the doors unlocked. 

“You have a car phone?” Aziraphale eyed the block sitting between the two seats. The Bently had gotten the device in 1979 simply because Crowley thought it’s what cars had. 

“Yup. Mind if we take the short way?”

Aziraphale, who had the look of someone who minded very much, said, “No. Not at all.”

Their heads pressed into the seats as the Bently did 100 down Greek Street. Shoppers two hundred feet away had the sudden urge to get out of the road and cars found themselves pulling off to the curb because going 100 down Greek street wasn’t that hard if you just concentrated. 

* * *

  
  


The pastry shop was small and warm. Creampuffs and cakes sat on neat doilies underneath a domed bakery case. Aziraphale fluttered over the display, eyes bright. Crowley ordered a coffee and waited. 

Angels, who are celestial beings with no material bodies, did not have to eat. This did not bother Aziraphale, who quite enjoyed the pastime. He had been in Paris in 1808 when brioche had taken the city by storm and had since had an affinity for all things gourmet. With his long life came an extensive palette, which made ordering an affair within itself. He would have been there all morning if Crowley had not threatened physical violence.

They sat outside underneath the shop’s faded blue veranda.

“This looks delicious,” Aziraphale said as he smiled down at his chocolate croissant. 

Crowley eyed the pastry with a searing hatred. He lifted his espresso. “Better enjoy that.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Thank you for being so patient. You know how I get when presented with too many options.”

“Annoying?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale felt it again: a blanket of warmth. Crowley was staring at him, glasses balanced on the tip of his nose and one eyebrow unbelievably arched. 

Aziraphale fiddled with his napkin. “What happened with Mr. Lennon has me thinking _—”_

“No one calls him _Mr. Lennon._ ” 

“Be that as it may, it’s made me realize that life is short.”

“We’re almost six thousand years old.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “But my point is that this way of life isn’t forever. There is Armageddon to think about, whenever that may be. I’ve spent all of my time vehemently saying that you’re not my friend. So I just wanted to acknowledge that I enjoy your company very much.”

They stared at each other awkwardly. 

Crowley took off his glasses and placed them on the table. He slid his hand across the cool metal and laced his fingers with Aziraphale’s. “I - er, like you too.”

“Who said anything about liking you?” Crowley tried to pull away but Aziraphale held fast. “I’m sorry. I’m not the least good at being funny.”

“You know I much more than like you. Surely even _you_ can’t be that thick.” 

Aziraphale kissed Crowley's knuckles and Crowley said something that sounded like ‘gurghh.’

Aziraphale finished his croissant and Crowley paid the bill. Across the street, a peddler took out a guitar and began to play a familiar sunny song. After a small miracle, he would find 600 pounds nestled in his hat.

They didn’t hold hands on their way to the Bently because the world still wasn’t receptive to that sort of thing. 

“I’d like to go there again,” Aziraphale started as they entered the bookshop. He stopped short when Crowley cupped his face in his hands, as a person was wont to do when he was madly in love. Aziraphale gripped the back of his arms.

“Anything you’d like, angel.” 

Aziraphale looked a mix of starstruck and terrified. 

“It alright if I _—_ ? _”_ Crowley’s eyes darted across Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale wasn’t anything if not brave. He surged forward and kissed Crowley. The demon inhaled, stumbling backward in a pinwheel of limbs.

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale raised his hands in placation. “I thought you wanted to kiss me!”

“I _did!_ I just wasn’t _ready!_ ” Crowley protested, disentangling himself from a bookshelf. He pranced over a pile of fallen first edition Ernest Hemingways.

Aziraphale straightened his bowtie. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Crowley stroked his thumb down Aziraphale’s cheek. Then he took a deep breath and kissed his best friend.

Aziraphale decided that it was his favorite thing humans had come up with.

* * *

  
  


Heaven was delighted and relieved to learn that God’s new favorite song was “Here Comes the Sun,” often performed by one of the locals to rancorous applause.


End file.
